"Martha Wells - Wheel of the Infinite" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wells Martha)

he was nowhere to be seen.



Chapter 3
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Near the end of the performance, when most of the Ariaden were on stage, something drew
Maskelle’s eyes to the bank below the outpost. The light from the lamps along the balconies didn’t fall
there and the shadows were deep. . . . The light. Maskelle sat up abruptly. There should be smaller
lamps attached to the pilings, so a boat passing down the river during the night wouldn’t be in danger of
striking them. There had been lamps, the last time she had noticed.
She got to her feet, her knees cracking in protest at her long immobility, and made a wide circle
around the audience, out of the torchlight. The boatmen were playing dice with the Mahlindi’s guards and
drivers in the very back, and none of them looked up as she passed.
It was very dark near the bank, the shadow of the outpost blocking what little moonlight escaped past
the clouds. She only knew how near she was by the sound of the river and the mud squelching underfoot.
She found the water steps that led down to the bridges under the post, crept down them to the first piling.
She ran her hands around the rough splintered surface until she felt the cracked globe of the lamp; the
glass was still warm.
So something came out of the river and put out the lamps, she thought, finding the steps again
with her staff and climbing back up the bank. But where is it now?
The play had ended and the troupe were taking bows, the Mahlindi thumping their feet and shouting
to show their appreciation. Maskelle moved away from the outpost as the crowd dispersed. She saw the
factor’s assistant gesture emphatically at the pilings, calling an order to someone, and others ran to relight
the safety lamps.
Maskelle withdrew all the way to the edge of the trees, where she had a view of the whole camp.
There was a group around the factor’s assistant now, pointing at each other and talking angrily; she took
it that some blame was being passed around for allowing the lamps to go out. It would be nice to believe
it was an accident or negligence, but she didn’t think she was so lucky.
 It was late and the camp quieted down rapidly. The Ariaden were the first to retire, cranking down
the shutters on their wagons against insects and the threat of rain. The boatmen went back to their boats,
and the Mahlindi and the other travellers gradually withdrew into their own wagons, the drivers wrapping
up in blankets and stretching out on the seats or tailgates. The factor’s guards were all stationed inside the
post: the Mahlindi had sentries, but they were all watching the merchants’ cargo wagons.
Maskelle paid special attention to a trader’s wagon nearby. Before retiring he filled a lamp with oil
from a large gourd that hung on the sideboard of his wagon. He had also banked his cooking fire badly.
Water spirits could be driven off by fire, especially if they could be lured too far away from a source of
running water.
A little time passed and the lights inside the outpost went out, one by one.
Sitting on the damp ground under a breadfruit tree, in the dark and quiet, Maskelle began to feel the
night come alive around her. She felt the wind breathe through the heavy leaves above her, felt the
impatient river water lap and tug at the pilings and the ropes, felt the weight of the wagons on the ground,
the stamp of the oxen’s feet. Felt that she wasn’t alone.
He was about twenty feet from her, crouching at the base of a tree at the edge of the compound. Hah
, she thought, easing silently to her feet.
She made it to within five feet of him before his head turned sharply. “Surprise,” Maskelle said, a
barely voiced whisper.
She had surprised her swordsman this time, she felt, and annoyed him too, though it was too dark to